Challenged into Indian Steampunk
Apparently some Campaigners asked for more challenging challenges ... the result was a crazy accumulation of prompts and activities and optional difficulty-raisers. The whole set of rules can be found here.
I actually included all 5 prompts and completed all 5 activities and included all 3 additional difficulties:
1. completed at least 3 activities and tied them together with a common theme (India)
2. written in the genre "Steampunk", which I never used before
3. asking for critique by the other Campaigners
Activity 1 - Write a pitch/logline for a book based on the prompts (less than 100 words)
When a couple of poor, Indian orphans and the young son of a white, rich factory-owner get caught and hurt in the explosion of a sabotaged airship, they hide from the resulting energy-wave beneath the remains of an old, rusty bridge. Only the half-mad water-shaper and scientist who dwells nearby can save them, if his experiments won't make matters worse first, because he is developing a gas that does not only tinge certain particles in the air orange, but also makes them toxic.
Word Count: 83
Activity 2 - Write a short story/flash fiction piece of less than 200 words based on the prompts
"Shanti, wait for me!"
"Hurry up then, Rohan! That brat's wailing surely has called guards with rifles."
"Why did you have to steal that ball?"
The dirty, skinny girl laughed, but did not slow down while skipping over junks of metal and evading piles of garbage. It could be painful, fatal even, to step onto some hidden shard or a rusty screw.
"Because the red coat of that boy was too gaudy, of course!"
When they reached their hiding place beneath the broken bridge, Rohan stumbled on into the water and collapsed in the shallow part.
His sister leaned against a rusty girder, inspecting a bleeding cut on her brown-skinned knee.
"Is it bad enough for the factory?"
An orange flower of stylised energy was its symbol. It created gadgets that formed all sorts of shapes out of water, like shimmering fruit-sculptures or little animals. They only applied for the hard work there when they needed the service of its doctor.
"No, I'll be fine."
Nevertheless, Rohan heaved himself up and crawled to her side. Drops from his dark hair drummed on the ball, leaving tracks on the surface, already smeared with oil and soot, and no longer white.
Word Count: 199
Activity 3 - Write a poem with a twist using the prompts as inspiration (in less than 200 words)
At first, there is the light,
it starts white and bright,
until it gathers in a living knot of yellow flames.
Children's cries of joy and sorrow,
a bouncing ball or no food tomorrow,
their fate gets decided by a steam-powered wheel.
Two lovers escape their iron prison,
through water and with marks of crimson,
finding refuge in the rust and rubble of a ruined bridge.
Only a hand steady and bare
can wield a power so rare
that the water of mighty Ganges can be shaped to the heart's desire.
Word Count: 91
Activity 4 - Write a story/poem in five sentences, each sentence based on one of the prompts (apparently no word-limit here)
During the joyful years of my carefree youth, I spent my time chasing my favourite ball and screeching seagulls by the seaside, trying my best to ruin the fine clothes my mother made me wear.
When I was older, “The Seagull” was the first steam-powered airship that brought me to India where I was a guest of honour at my first international art-exhibition, which inspired me to a series of pictures about starving, brown-skinned children.
My masterpiece, a pear shaped out of water-droplets, complete with a green leaf to add some colour, sold for a fortune and made me rich enough to settle in a villa with a handful of clockwork-servants.
Only a few years later my life was in ruins, ravaged by treacherous fame and false friends, and the very last piece of art I ever created portrayed it perfectly – chaotic swirls of fading light in the middle of an oppressing darkness.
Now that the end is near, I find myself beaten and bloody under an equally battered, old bridge, but for the first time in ages I feel like I have a true friend at my side: drunkard Aamir Kapoor whom I have to fish out of the water every few days.
Word Count: 206
Activity 5 - Write a poem/flash fiction piece (in less than 200 words) about the water pear *without* using the words “pear”, “spoon”, or “droplet”.
The first day of school for young Rahul Chopra, and his mother had insisted on giving him a blessing. Fortunately, he wasn't the only one with a little, red smear on his forehead. To him, however, it was more important that his father had entrusted him with the precious, old pocket-watch. It had been in his family for generations.
The morning-lessons passed quite well. Not only his parents, but also his grandfather and various neighbours had told him again and again to be polite to the teachers and friendly to his classmates. Unfortunately, Rahul had soon learned that the latter wasn't so easy when certain boys already started bullying those who appeared weaker than them.
To his dismay, Devdan had managed to grab the seat next to him in the tinker-classroom. Could Rahul dare to show what he was capable of, or would that only be an invitation to get mocked and hurt?
The teacher caught him by surprise, so he shyly lifted the wooden handle. Flicking the simple switch on it he let the water-crystals get shaped into a random form.
"Wow! How did you do that?" Devdan leaned over, pure joy on his face, instead of malice.
Word Count: 199
That's it! :)
If you'd like to vote for me, I'm #82.
Really, I'm not sure how well I met the Steampunk-genre, but it certainly is even more difficult to do it with word-limits like that. Never mind that it was a hell of a challenge to combine so much unconnected stuff anyway - but so very much fun, too!
To properly fulfil the third difficulty, I hereby ask again for critique.
I am aware, most of it is rather weird, but I do want to improve on my flash-fiction skills and improvisation, so I'll be grateful for any advice.
And I certainly wouldn't mind to hear back from others than Campaigners and those who tried their hands on that challenge, too.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Untitled Short-Story - Part 1
During NaNo 2011 I found and got found by the Chick Lit Cheerleaders.
They are a great band and always ready to encourage and advise, no matter what you are writing.
Their latest idea was to do some short-stories based on prompts we give each other during March.
The first prompt I chose was given by Lindsay:
He offered her the world. She said she had one of her own.
Countless tales got carried past her in the gentle breeze that made her shawl dance like a flag. It's colour mimicked the violet heather on the hills to the east. From there, her gaze wandered along the river, which flowed down into the valley. It turned and twisted, like it had no sense of direction at all. In truth, these lands were covered with patches of unyielding rock, leaving little room for farmland. There even were some rapids where the blue, clear stream got turned into white, dangerous traps. The fisher-folk, who were one of the few inhabitants of the valley, stayed well away from them, especially when the spring melt has hidden the riverbanks under icy cold masses of water. And still, she had had to save the one or other from drowning. In return, they brought her gifts, like the blue and white striped long dress.
The flame on her staff flickered, although the wind had ceased completely now. In a soft crackle she learned about the Traveller who was about to arrive soon. She didn't need to turn her head to see him, for she had mastered the visions long ago. There was no need to call them, she just listened to what the fire had to tell her. When she sought an answer, either for herself or for one of those who desired her help, it didn't take long until the wood that did not burn revealed what was to come.
It had taken her a while to learn how to recognize a true vision from a false one. The latter were caused by wishful thinking more often than by fear or hate. In time, those like her learned to control their feelings, which was one key to the secret. Every seer had to follow his or her own path. In Valeria's case it had lead her to the solitary tower on top of a steep hill, where she had dwelt alone until today - most of the time with the knowledge that the Traveller would decide on her fate.
Strong, confident steps carried him from the shore onto the cracked, dusty road. As usual, every fibre on him was soaked. So far, no mage had mastered to eliminate this side-effect of the water-bridge. He couldn't help smiling at the irony of that, although the joke was old by now. An ordinary bridge connected two sides of a stretch of water and was supposed to let you cross it without getting wet. The magic which transported you from one place to another via any accumulation of water large enough to stand in, no matter whether it was connected to each other or not, always drenched you. It was generally believed that this was part of how it worked, but some kept wondering if it wasn't rather a deliberate 'mistake' of the spell-casters.
Fortunately the sun shone bright and warm on this day, drying his clothes and hair, while erasing his damp footprints on the road as well. By the time he reached the first bend, he actually felt so hot that he pulled out the scarf, which was stowed away in his pouch, and wound it several times around his head. The cloth and indeed the style of wearing it had been picked up by him on one of his previous journeys. Never once did his feet slow down or falter, carrying him ever onwards towards the tower on the hill.
Soon it became obvious that the main-road, if it deserved that name considering its poor state, would not lead him to his goal but rather to a little settlement at the river-bank. Longingly he regarded the fisher-huts, smelling supper and hearing the laughter of undoubtedly lively, young women. Surely they wouldn't mind a visitor who could repay their hospitality with entertaining stories and rare trinkets? He could imagine it just too well, and found himself smiling contentedly at the prospect of encouraging a little village-feast, so that he could dance with some of the prettiest girls.
The ground beneath his boots suddenly grew softer. Despite his daydreaming, some part of him had noticed a half overgrown path that diverged from the road. While the laughter of the fisher-folk grew faint behind him, he soon had to pay attention on where he placed his feet. It was a rather straight trail of stones that lead up to the tower, and in the steep places they reminded of old, weathered stair-steps. Moss and thick grass padded them and made them probably very slick after a rainfall. He was glad it was not winter right now.
When Alexander's head came level with the top of the hill, all distractions of the valley, lazy mages or previous adventures were forgotten - the wind itself seemed to push him gently upwards until he stepped on the old cobblestones and approached the woman he was meant to marry.
To be continued ...
-> part two
They are a great band and always ready to encourage and advise, no matter what you are writing.
Their latest idea was to do some short-stories based on prompts we give each other during March.
The first prompt I chose was given by Lindsay:
He offered her the world. She said she had one of her own.
Countless tales got carried past her in the gentle breeze that made her shawl dance like a flag. It's colour mimicked the violet heather on the hills to the east. From there, her gaze wandered along the river, which flowed down into the valley. It turned and twisted, like it had no sense of direction at all. In truth, these lands were covered with patches of unyielding rock, leaving little room for farmland. There even were some rapids where the blue, clear stream got turned into white, dangerous traps. The fisher-folk, who were one of the few inhabitants of the valley, stayed well away from them, especially when the spring melt has hidden the riverbanks under icy cold masses of water. And still, she had had to save the one or other from drowning. In return, they brought her gifts, like the blue and white striped long dress.
The flame on her staff flickered, although the wind had ceased completely now. In a soft crackle she learned about the Traveller who was about to arrive soon. She didn't need to turn her head to see him, for she had mastered the visions long ago. There was no need to call them, she just listened to what the fire had to tell her. When she sought an answer, either for herself or for one of those who desired her help, it didn't take long until the wood that did not burn revealed what was to come.
It had taken her a while to learn how to recognize a true vision from a false one. The latter were caused by wishful thinking more often than by fear or hate. In time, those like her learned to control their feelings, which was one key to the secret. Every seer had to follow his or her own path. In Valeria's case it had lead her to the solitary tower on top of a steep hill, where she had dwelt alone until today - most of the time with the knowledge that the Traveller would decide on her fate.
Strong, confident steps carried him from the shore onto the cracked, dusty road. As usual, every fibre on him was soaked. So far, no mage had mastered to eliminate this side-effect of the water-bridge. He couldn't help smiling at the irony of that, although the joke was old by now. An ordinary bridge connected two sides of a stretch of water and was supposed to let you cross it without getting wet. The magic which transported you from one place to another via any accumulation of water large enough to stand in, no matter whether it was connected to each other or not, always drenched you. It was generally believed that this was part of how it worked, but some kept wondering if it wasn't rather a deliberate 'mistake' of the spell-casters.
Fortunately the sun shone bright and warm on this day, drying his clothes and hair, while erasing his damp footprints on the road as well. By the time he reached the first bend, he actually felt so hot that he pulled out the scarf, which was stowed away in his pouch, and wound it several times around his head. The cloth and indeed the style of wearing it had been picked up by him on one of his previous journeys. Never once did his feet slow down or falter, carrying him ever onwards towards the tower on the hill.
Soon it became obvious that the main-road, if it deserved that name considering its poor state, would not lead him to his goal but rather to a little settlement at the river-bank. Longingly he regarded the fisher-huts, smelling supper and hearing the laughter of undoubtedly lively, young women. Surely they wouldn't mind a visitor who could repay their hospitality with entertaining stories and rare trinkets? He could imagine it just too well, and found himself smiling contentedly at the prospect of encouraging a little village-feast, so that he could dance with some of the prettiest girls.
The ground beneath his boots suddenly grew softer. Despite his daydreaming, some part of him had noticed a half overgrown path that diverged from the road. While the laughter of the fisher-folk grew faint behind him, he soon had to pay attention on where he placed his feet. It was a rather straight trail of stones that lead up to the tower, and in the steep places they reminded of old, weathered stair-steps. Moss and thick grass padded them and made them probably very slick after a rainfall. He was glad it was not winter right now.
When Alexander's head came level with the top of the hill, all distractions of the valley, lazy mages or previous adventures were forgotten - the wind itself seemed to push him gently upwards until he stepped on the old cobblestones and approached the woman he was meant to marry.
To be continued ...
-> part two
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Summer turns to winter
Jenny was one of the first to answer my 11 questions, among them the request for a writing-prompt.
A man wakes up to find summer has somehow turned to winter.
I fulfilled it (more or less) by writing a scene for my project "Neverlost & Everfound":
A man wakes up to find summer has somehow turned to winter.
I fulfilled it (more or less) by writing a scene for my project "Neverlost & Everfound":
There had been pain and he remembered falling. Or perhaps it had been the other way around? Night or day - it was all the same to him. Most of the time, he was just trying to fight the pain and form a coherent thought.
'A hospital bed.' He could smell the the clinical cleanness of the place, hear beeping sounds of machines and blink up at the plain, white ceiling. Sometimes there were muffled voices and blurred faces. After a while, he could distinguish several different people and his vision became clearer, although he didn't care much who they were.
It seemed like an endless nightmare. Was this place real at all? He had been looking for Evelyn. Did he find her?
The beacon had called him, and he was eager to follow. He felt guilty, because he had been about to give up on her. But he had been more than ready to follow this lead, no matter how crazy that seemed. Not once did he regret that he didn't take anyone with him or ask for help, because they all didn't believe he would find her after all these years. Such supportive company just distracted him, and he needed all his concentration to listen to the call of the beacon - to see it with his inner eye, glimmering in the distance, promising hope.
Then there he was falling and lost the connection. Or perhaps he lost his way and he fell, due to stumbling around like a blind mad-man. Running in circles or lying at the bottom of a cliff - it was all the same to him. However, if he had a choice, he would much rather die outside in the summer-sun by the sea, than in a cold hospital that smelled of disinfectant.
In time, he needed less and less medication. His mind cleared and he did not only know what the driving force in his life had been for the last few years, but he also remembered his name and those of his most frequent visitors.
"The doctors say, you could go home in a few weeks, Nestor. You just have to finally start rehab and eat properly. Are you listening?"
"What would I want at home, Frank? I failed her. I can't find her."
The bigger man winced at the weak sound of his friends voice. In years, he was still young, but the loss of his fiancée and his futile, yearlong search for her had marked him, especially this recent episode. And it had almost cost his life.
"Pull yourself together! You were always the one to tell everyone that Evelyn is still alive. That she just is lost and needs to find her way home again. What if she returns and you are not here? Do you expect me to tell her that you have given up on her?"
A nurse opened the door without knocking. When she found Nestor lying in his bed, calm and dejected as usual, and his visitor smiling warmly at her, she left again.
"See - even the people on the corridor listen more to me than you do!" Frank kept his voice at a more moderate volume, which wasn't easy since it was loud and strong by nature, due to his big stature.
"I am listening to you." Nestor blinked at the window, as if he saw it for the first time. "Do you really think she will come home one day?"
"Of course! Although I really can't understand what she sees in you, I know she loves you more than anything and certainly more than you deserve." Frank gave his friend a clap on the shoulder, although he tried to keep his strength in check. The younger man's leg had been damaged so badly that he would never have its full use again, but he had suffered other injuries, like a concussion, too.
"How long have I been here?" There were some flowers and cards on his nightstand, but no paper or a calender. Until recently, Nestor hardly had reacted to anyone, and this was the first time he showed interest in life again.
"I'm afraid you'll need help with moving around when you leave this place. By then we'll be in the middle of winter and even nowadays there is some frost outside in the early hours. But don't worry, me and my boy will be there."
Nestor just nodded, his mind already wandering again. But this time, he did not give in to nightmares and wishful thinking. Instead, he wondered how he could waste months in such a daze. How was Evelyn to find him, if he had almost lost himself?
Monday, February 20, 2012
First Campaigner Challenge (of Fourth Compaign)
The Power of a Word
Shadows crept across the wall, stretching their dark, cold fingers towards the trembling girl. The orange glow of the fireplace was now mocking the security it once had provided.
Her eyes darted towards the bucket of dirty water. Could she reach it in time? It was almost two arm's lengths away. Would it be enough to quench the flames? She herself had provided new logs not long ago, so it would burn bright and last long.
Or might she save her life by throwing in more of the white powder? The mage could coax a spark out of a bundle of wet grass with a pinch of it. He also could call lightning inside the room, by throwing a handful into the air. But there always was a word. And it was a different incantation for every different purpose.
'No!' The shadows had almost reached her. There was nowhere else to go, for the darkness was closing in on all sides, despite the fire. The bucket of water had already vanished.
Eyes fixed on the last visible bits of powder, which had spilled on the floor when the mage had fallen, the girl screamed a single word until everything faded.
word count: 200
Those were the rules, as given by Rachael:
Write a flash fiction story in 200 words or less, excluding the title.
Begin the story with the words, “Shadows crept across the wall”. These five words will be included in the word count.
If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional), do one or more of these:
- end the story with the words: "everything faded." (also included in the word count)
- include the word "orange" in the story< - write in the same genre you normally write (in my case: fantasy)
- make your story 200 words exactly!
If you like this, please vote for my story, it's #59 (although it was #60 in the beginning).
P.S.: I declare that this little piece of story is part of my Messenger-project, which can be found here under the respective label.
Shadows crept across the wall, stretching their dark, cold fingers towards the trembling girl. The orange glow of the fireplace was now mocking the security it once had provided.
Her eyes darted towards the bucket of dirty water. Could she reach it in time? It was almost two arm's lengths away. Would it be enough to quench the flames? She herself had provided new logs not long ago, so it would burn bright and last long.
Or might she save her life by throwing in more of the white powder? The mage could coax a spark out of a bundle of wet grass with a pinch of it. He also could call lightning inside the room, by throwing a handful into the air. But there always was a word. And it was a different incantation for every different purpose.
'No!' The shadows had almost reached her. There was nowhere else to go, for the darkness was closing in on all sides, despite the fire. The bucket of water had already vanished.
Eyes fixed on the last visible bits of powder, which had spilled on the floor when the mage had fallen, the girl screamed a single word until everything faded.
word count: 200
Those were the rules, as given by Rachael:
Write a flash fiction story in 200 words or less, excluding the title.
Begin the story with the words, “Shadows crept across the wall”. These five words will be included in the word count.
If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional), do one or more of these:
- end the story with the words: "everything faded." (also included in the word count)
- include the word "orange" in the story< - write in the same genre you normally write (in my case: fantasy)
- make your story 200 words exactly!
If you like this, please vote for my story, it's #59 (although it was #60 in the beginning).
P.S.: I declare that this little piece of story is part of my Messenger-project, which can be found here under the respective label.
Friday, February 17, 2012
11 Questions
All right, I've been tagged by my fellow writer Misha and now ought to answer her 11 questions ... and then tag 11 other people and ask them my own 11 questions.
Since this comes from a writer and I plan to tag writers and some of the questions are writing-related and it's about time I introduce myself a bit here on this writing-only blog ... lets start :)
1. Do you believe in fate?
Yes, I do. For every good thing that happens, be prepared to face some bad news. And if bad things happen to you, there will be good times ahead, too.
Besides, isn't any writer creating the fate of their characters? They might be fictional, but in a way they do have a life of their own and can't help accepting the fate we dictate them.
2. How the heck do you write and have a life?
I sometimes sleep very little :)
When I'm in one of these phases where I try to write every day a substantial amount of words (like during NaNoWriMo), I often spend the night half-awake or have to catch up on my writing before going to work.
3. If you were in a written story, which character trope would you most likely have followed?
I am not entirely sure what is meant with that question.
If it's about which kind of character I would be in a novel ... well, probably the naive, cowardly, poor soul that ends up either in the middle of the action and has to pull herself together, or I would be a casualty :)
If it's about to which kind of character I would be drawn to ... most likely the hero. I would try to offer my help and become his sidekick, or perhaps even his romantic interest, if he's good looking *g*
4. Sweet or Savory?
sweet ... in 90%
5. What's your big dream?
I want to finish at least 1 novel, have it printed somehow (if necessary at my own expenses) and see it in a book-store (if necessary as a free gift to anyone who cares to take it).
6. Fondest memory?
Oh, that's a hard one. My memory is awful, which concerns both important and unimportant stuff, as well as happy and bad things. And I know there have been plenty of each.
So, let's choose something writing-related.
Last year, I won the Creature-Creation-Competition of Samantha. There was only one other entry, but I didn't care. I was so proud!
7. What's your biggest wish? (world peace does not count)
I wish for lots of things that can't come true.
And for some that are unlikely or require a lot of effort on my side (like writing a book).
If I were allowed a big selfish wish, it would be that I don't have to die in pain once my time has come. Just fall asleep after everything is settled.
And if I ought to be less selfish, then I would wish that for everyone else.
8. Would you rather have an exciting life and be alone or find the great love of your life and live a relatively normal one?
Hm, right now I'm quite happy being alone, but my life is not exactly exciting.
However, I would choose the love of my life any time. So, where is he?
9. Have you ever done something, only to realize a half a second later that you made a mistake?
I do that on a regular basis, unfortunately.
None of those mistakes that comes to mind was interesting enough to mention it here though.
10. Did you try to go back and fix it, or did you follow through?
It might be that I try to fix it in far too few cases. Sometimes it takes me awfully long to accept my mistake and take actions against it. Most of the time I just think "now you have to live with it".
11. Do you edit while writing or after the draft is done?
I do edit a little, but not too much. I believe the various writing-courses that it would be stupid to start rewriting lots of your story before the first draft is finished.
So, and now I am going to ask my 11 questions to the 11 people listed below.
1. Do you believe creating stories, songs, art etc. is some sort of magic?
2. What kind of imaginary friend did you have / have you, if you ever had one?
3. Was there ever a story that influenced you enough so that you used part of it in your own work?
4. Is there some kind of trademark you use in every or most of your stories/songs/etc.?
5. What kind of characters or worlds wake your interest in a story?
6. How do you organize your ideas and projects?
7. What do you do when you start to doubt yourself?
8. Where do you feel at home? If there are different places, tell why they feel different.
9. What's your opinion on fanfiction/fanart/filk/etc.?
10. Can you recommend a writing-tip or -tool?
11. Would you care to give me a writing-prompt, please?
I hope, some of these people will answer my questions, here or somewhere else, they are quite a mixed group:
1. farawayeyes
2. Fiacha
3. Jana
4. Jenny
5. Jessica
6. Kerimaya
7. Lindsay
8. Nutshell
9. Samantha
10. the first chibi
11. Verity
This gets cross-posted in my general blog.
Since this comes from a writer and I plan to tag writers and some of the questions are writing-related and it's about time I introduce myself a bit here on this writing-only blog ... lets start :)
1. Do you believe in fate?
Yes, I do. For every good thing that happens, be prepared to face some bad news. And if bad things happen to you, there will be good times ahead, too.
Besides, isn't any writer creating the fate of their characters? They might be fictional, but in a way they do have a life of their own and can't help accepting the fate we dictate them.
2. How the heck do you write and have a life?
I sometimes sleep very little :)
When I'm in one of these phases where I try to write every day a substantial amount of words (like during NaNoWriMo), I often spend the night half-awake or have to catch up on my writing before going to work.
3. If you were in a written story, which character trope would you most likely have followed?
I am not entirely sure what is meant with that question.
If it's about which kind of character I would be in a novel ... well, probably the naive, cowardly, poor soul that ends up either in the middle of the action and has to pull herself together, or I would be a casualty :)
If it's about to which kind of character I would be drawn to ... most likely the hero. I would try to offer my help and become his sidekick, or perhaps even his romantic interest, if he's good looking *g*
4. Sweet or Savory?
sweet ... in 90%
5. What's your big dream?
I want to finish at least 1 novel, have it printed somehow (if necessary at my own expenses) and see it in a book-store (if necessary as a free gift to anyone who cares to take it).
6. Fondest memory?
Oh, that's a hard one. My memory is awful, which concerns both important and unimportant stuff, as well as happy and bad things. And I know there have been plenty of each.
So, let's choose something writing-related.
Last year, I won the Creature-Creation-Competition of Samantha. There was only one other entry, but I didn't care. I was so proud!
7. What's your biggest wish? (world peace does not count)
I wish for lots of things that can't come true.
And for some that are unlikely or require a lot of effort on my side (like writing a book).
If I were allowed a big selfish wish, it would be that I don't have to die in pain once my time has come. Just fall asleep after everything is settled.
And if I ought to be less selfish, then I would wish that for everyone else.
8. Would you rather have an exciting life and be alone or find the great love of your life and live a relatively normal one?
Hm, right now I'm quite happy being alone, but my life is not exactly exciting.
However, I would choose the love of my life any time. So, where is he?
9. Have you ever done something, only to realize a half a second later that you made a mistake?
I do that on a regular basis, unfortunately.
None of those mistakes that comes to mind was interesting enough to mention it here though.
10. Did you try to go back and fix it, or did you follow through?
It might be that I try to fix it in far too few cases. Sometimes it takes me awfully long to accept my mistake and take actions against it. Most of the time I just think "now you have to live with it".
11. Do you edit while writing or after the draft is done?
I do edit a little, but not too much. I believe the various writing-courses that it would be stupid to start rewriting lots of your story before the first draft is finished.
So, and now I am going to ask my 11 questions to the 11 people listed below.
1. Do you believe creating stories, songs, art etc. is some sort of magic?
2. What kind of imaginary friend did you have / have you, if you ever had one?
3. Was there ever a story that influenced you enough so that you used part of it in your own work?
4. Is there some kind of trademark you use in every or most of your stories/songs/etc.?
5. What kind of characters or worlds wake your interest in a story?
6. How do you organize your ideas and projects?
7. What do you do when you start to doubt yourself?
8. Where do you feel at home? If there are different places, tell why they feel different.
9. What's your opinion on fanfiction/fanart/filk/etc.?
10. Can you recommend a writing-tip or -tool?
11. Would you care to give me a writing-prompt, please?
I hope, some of these people will answer my questions, here or somewhere else, they are quite a mixed group:
1. farawayeyes
2. Fiacha
3. Jana
4. Jenny
5. Jessica
6. Kerimaya
7. Lindsay
8. Nutshell
9. Samantha
10. the first chibi
11. Verity
This gets cross-posted in my general blog.
Monday, February 13, 2012
ORIGINS blogfest
Before I started to write, I started to create worlds.
I was the boss of a realm beyond the clouds. You could travel there on sunrays that were connecting it to earth, I call them sky-stairs. Or you could use one of my space-ships. And in case there were no clouds in the sky, it was hidden and only those familiar with it could go there (like me).
The first writing-success I remember was in primary school. It must have been on of the first stories we were supposed to write, because I had not planned to put much effort into it yet. However, I was praised for it, especially for a certain phrase I used: "He waited in the shadow of the door."
Although I still think I stole that line from somewhere, I started to like the idea of writing stories.
My memory is bad, but I know I tried to tell several stories via pictures during the next few years, the written words did come later (with some exceptions that turn up now and then in old notebooks).
I liked to put together little magazines, which only readers would be my mother and the friend with whom I worked on them.
Then were were some years of fanfiction for ElfQuest fan-clubs, called holts. This might have been my first English stories, too.
The brainstorming and single scenes for my very first big fantasy-epos were in german. Books like those of David Eddings inspired me. Till this day it is still untiteled and of course unfinished.
It shares that second characteristic with all of my other stories, which I usually started during the last few NaNoWriMos or as fanfiction.
Most of my stories are in English now, because I discovered my love for that language some years ago.
This is my contribution to DL Hammons' ORIGINS blogfest, which he started so that writers could share a bit of their past and motivation with others. Take a look at his link-list, if you are interested in more origin-stories.
This entry is cross-posted with my general-blog.
I was the boss of a realm beyond the clouds. You could travel there on sunrays that were connecting it to earth, I call them sky-stairs. Or you could use one of my space-ships. And in case there were no clouds in the sky, it was hidden and only those familiar with it could go there (like me).
The first writing-success I remember was in primary school. It must have been on of the first stories we were supposed to write, because I had not planned to put much effort into it yet. However, I was praised for it, especially for a certain phrase I used: "He waited in the shadow of the door."
Although I still think I stole that line from somewhere, I started to like the idea of writing stories.
My memory is bad, but I know I tried to tell several stories via pictures during the next few years, the written words did come later (with some exceptions that turn up now and then in old notebooks).
I liked to put together little magazines, which only readers would be my mother and the friend with whom I worked on them.
Then were were some years of fanfiction for ElfQuest fan-clubs, called holts. This might have been my first English stories, too.
The brainstorming and single scenes for my very first big fantasy-epos were in german. Books like those of David Eddings inspired me. Till this day it is still untiteled and of course unfinished.
It shares that second characteristic with all of my other stories, which I usually started during the last few NaNoWriMos or as fanfiction.
Most of my stories are in English now, because I discovered my love for that language some years ago.
This is my contribution to DL Hammons' ORIGINS blogfest, which he started so that writers could share a bit of their past and motivation with others. Take a look at his link-list, if you are interested in more origin-stories.
This entry is cross-posted with my general-blog.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Join the Fourth Writer's Platform Campaign
Last autumn I learned of Rachael's great idea to create a community where like-minded writers can meet, that was the 3rd Writer's Platform Campaign.
I had a lot of fun with the flash-fiction challenges that were organized (you can find my entries for those in this blog, too). Furthermore I learned a lot and found some were helpful advice on writing on all those other blogs. And last but not least, I made new friends who share my hobby.
So, I was looking forward eagerly to her next campaign, and here it is.
Please, visit Rachael Harrie's Fourth Writer's Platform Campaign!
If you want to sign up, you have to do so until February 15th.
This was crossposted with my general blog.
I had a lot of fun with the flash-fiction challenges that were organized (you can find my entries for those in this blog, too). Furthermore I learned a lot and found some were helpful advice on writing on all those other blogs. And last but not least, I made new friends who share my hobby.
So, I was looking forward eagerly to her next campaign, and here it is.
Please, visit Rachael Harrie's Fourth Writer's Platform Campaign!
If you want to sign up, you have to do so until February 15th.
This was crossposted with my general blog.
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